


and there you were (always on my mind)

by writeyourownstory



Series: Louder Than Words [1]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Bit of Internalized Homophobia, Empath, Gas attack, Gay Panic, Headaches & Migraines, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining Tom Blake, Pre-Slash, Psychic William Schofield, Telepathy, Tom says fuck a lot, Will can hear his pining, it's awkward, lax historical accuracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24583738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeyourownstory/pseuds/writeyourownstory
Summary: “Hello, there!”A young man stands over him—a lance corporal judging by the chevrons—blocking out the remaining sun and smiling down at him in friendly manner. A boy, no older than nineteen, he'd reckon. His face is round, the baby fat stubbornly clinging on, and his blue eyes are wide and clear. No shadows in them, yet—no haunted look. Nothing like the men here.Words drift over Will even as the boy’s mouth remains unmoving.Bloody hell, the bloke looks awful. Is this what we all’ll look like after some action? Fuck, I hope not. He looks like a stiff wind’ll knock him flat. Heard he was at the Somme—He has to swallow the bitter taste in his mouth when he feels pity come off the lad.(Will is psychic. It makes things difficult.)
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: Louder Than Words [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1776946
Comments: 35
Kudos: 199





	and there you were (always on my mind)

**Author's Note:**

> Look at us! We are expanding this fandom so beautifully! We have taken a 2 hour movie and have created so much from it! So many creative writers have dedicated their time to this fandom and it makes my heart warm!
> 
> That being said, I have no idea why I'm here! Don't know why I wrote this either - this concept burrowed into my head and wouldn't leave until I wrote it. It took a few months, but here we are! Hope it's not utter crap! 
> 
> I plan to write more for my domestic series but this one called my attention for a moment so hopefully I can start back on that soon.
> 
> Anyways, please enjoy!

Reinforcements arrive in early November. They meander around the camp, bringing with them an air of excitement and a naive need to prove themselves that only young men fresh out of training can exude.

Will finds them all very loud—it feels like a swarm of bees as invaded the camp and it makes his head throb. He has to work harder to block them out. Compared to his own men (those who remain at least), fresh from the Somme and whose minds have created a sullen haze around the camp—like a miasma, thick and choking—the difference was stark. A disturbance to the calm that’s managed to descend in the wake of their movement to the south.

Will secludes himself away from the rest of the company. It’s not an unusual habit for him, so he knows that no one will come looking for him. He finds a place behind one of the billets, away from the noise of the mess. Distance helps, but there was no getting rid of it. Things were never quiet on the front, but in close quarters like these, there was never a moment’s peace for someone like him.

He sighs and leans his aching head back against the wall, the setting sun a soft glow on his face as he closes his eyes. He begins the breathing exercises that his father taught him so long ago, allowing the flow of air into his lungs to fill him up, breathing out the excess thoughts and emotions that crowd his mind on each exhale. His stomach growls but he ignores it. It wasn’t worth making his headache worse by fighting the crowd in the mess. He’ll suffer through the night and grab something in the morning.

Heavy footsteps interrupt his meditation sometime later, bringing Will out of his deep breathing with a start.

“Hello, there!”

A young man stands over him—a lance corporal judging by the chevrons—blocking out the remaining sun and smiling down at him in friendly manner. A boy, no older than nineteen, he'd reckon. His face is round, the baby fat stubbornly clinging on, and his blue eyes are wide and clear. No shadows in them, yet—no haunted look. Nothing like the men here.

Words drift over Will even as the boy’s mouth remains unmoving.

 _Bloody_ _hell, the bloke looks awful. Is this what we all’ll look like after some action? Fuck, I hope not. He looks like a stiff wind’ll knock him flat. Heard he was at the Somme—_

He has to swallow the bitter taste in his mouth when he feels pity come off the lad. Yes, he’s sure he looks a fright.

(He absently notes the consistency of the boy’s thoughts—where most were light and insubstantial, his were strong, coherent enough that Will didn’t have to swim through layers of emotion to decipher them. They still projected like all thoughts do—half cut off like he was walking in on a conversation already started, illogical in their inception—but Will could still hear them plain as day. Swirls of emotions and intentions gave them substance in his mind’s eye. Will could practically taste the youthful innocence in their flow.)

The boy clears his throat, bringing Will’s focus back on him. Will notices he’s carrying a tray from the mess.

“I was wondering if we could have a chat,” he says, voice cheery despite the nerves coming off him. “Lance corporal to lance corporal.”

Will looks up at him wearily. The young man squirms under his gaze.

“I’m sure there are others who could provide you with better company than I could, lance corporal,” Will says dismissively. His head throbs again and he hopes the boy takes the hint and leaves him be.

The boy looks a bit lost at that. But instead of turning and leaving like Will had hoped, he seems to steel himself, stubbornness settling in him.

_C’mon, you’re good at making friends! Just put on the charm._

Will raises an eyebrow. Friends? Who would want to be friends with him? Most of the company avoid him, thinking him too dour and unsociable. Which he couldn’t blame them. It was hard to make friends when he could hear _exactly_ what the other men thought of him. He avoided _them_ for that reason.

The boy speaks again, earnest. “I just meant, there aren’t many men ranked the same as us in our group. I thought it best we got to know each other. Share advice, that sort of thing.”

 _—others said to leave him be. Unfriendly. Distant. Shouldn’t bother with him. Who the fuck are they to tell me what to do? Looks like a decent enough chap_.

Will feels the echoes of agitation and indignation come off the lance corporal. He has no idea what to think about that.

Before he can speak, the boy points to the space beside Will. “Mind if I sit?”

Without even waiting for an answer, he throws himself down on the ground beside Will, leaving barely half a metre between them. The tray he’d been carrying is placed on the grass between them. Will’s mildly bewildered at the boy’s boldness.

“Noticed you didn’t grab anything from the mess. I brought you some of mine, so we can share.” The boy grabs a stray piece of bread and starts to chew it with gusto. He’s not able to hide a grimace of disgust.

 _God, it tastes like dog shit_.

Will bites his lip to hide a smile. It was a strange sensation, almost foreign after so long.

“I’m Thomas Blake, by the way. Forgot to introduce myself, there.” The boy—Blake—holds out his hand. The gold rings on his fingers shine in the setting sun. “My mates call me Tom.”

Will stares at the outstretched hand before he sighs, resigned. The boy’s persistent, he’ll give him that. He shakes Blake’s hand, noting how clean (and soft) it was compared to his own. “William Schofield.”

“Nice to meet you, William Schofield.” Blake grins, pulling away to grab more food. He pushes the plate towards Will. “Eat up! It may be shit, but it’s all we got, apparently.”

Will smirks a bit, finally reaching for some of the stale bread.

“So,” Blake says after a moment. “Got any interesting stories about the 8th?”

Will doesn’t. But that doesn’t stop Blake, the young man instead taking up telling stories from training and some of the men he met there. Will quickly learns that Blake is a talker, easily filling the silence between them with both words and thoughts, not even remotely put off by Will’s silence. It’s refreshing. He doesn’t notice until well into a recount of a private who accidentally shot his own toe off that the noise of the entire company has quietened to a dull murmur at the back of his mind in the wake of Blake’s rambling. It’s relieving as much as it is mildly disconcerting, but Will doesn’t dwell on it. It helps his headache immensely.

He can’t even be angry about the fact that he was essentially strong-armed into a friendship with Thomas Blake.

Will hates his gift.

That’s what his father had called it—a _gift._ In what world would being able to hear and feel the consciousness of every bloody person that gets near him be considered a _gift_?

Will was born this way. His father told him that only the men in their family were. He never told Will the truth of its origin. Will was pretty sure that his father didn’t even know.

(His sister, Ellie, thinks a gypsy cursed one of their ancestors. Will, the more cynical of the two, thinks they were cursed by God. Ellie just calls him dramatic.)

Whatever the origin, Will _loathed_ it. There was no peace, no quiet. The world was loud and obtrusive the moment Will came into it. It made Will want to squirm, to tear himself right out of his skin every time someone’s mind brushed against his. It was unnatural, and his body must have known it to make him react that way. More than anything he felt like it was a violation on his part. Who was he to be able to look inside a person in such a way, to read them better than the people they were closest to—to know them as God only could? Like peering into a window with the shades open and observing a person in their most private moments. It made him feel terrible. It made him feel like a freak—a perversion of nature.

Only his father could empathize. He instructed Will from the moment he could understand that they were different, how to live with his gifts, how to use them properly, how to calm his mind. As he grew, he learned to tolerate it, to live with it as his father had. There was no controlling it, no shutting it off. His mind was permanently open to the thoughts and emotions of others, so he had to learn to focus, or else they would consume him. It took years of practice, but Will believed that by the time he was fifteen, he had a good handle on it. Enough to reduce the intrusive sensations to white noise in the back of his head.

The war changed that.

When he first arrived in France, young and fresh from training, he had a vivid memory of when his father took him to the city when he was nine. The village they lived in was small, so it was a shock to step off the train and his mind be assaulted with hundreds of consciousnesses. It was like an overwhelming cacophony of uncensored thoughts and emotions, a deafening circus of intentions and desires and judgments, a million jumbled conversations that made no sense to his young mind. It was the first time he’d been so overwhelmed, and he was reduced to a shaking mess within minutes. His father’s purpose in taking him there was to expose Will to crowds of people to see how he could handle it. His first visit was a disaster and they had to leave almost immediately, but his father took him often until he was confident Will’s mind could withstand it. Eventually, Will could stand in a crowd and act like a normal person. It took years of practice, though.

The front lines—it was like he was a child again. Being surrounding by hundreds of men in enclosed trenches for months on end did little for privacy. It wasn’t so much the thoughts of the other soldiers as it was their emotions that overwhelmed Will so greatly. Their fear, their anger, their bloodthirst, all flowing over him in an endless wave. He thought he would drown from the intensity. He was thrown into constant fits, the agony in this head causing nosebleeds and allowing him little rest. His commanding officers thought he’d gone mad with shellshock—despite having seen little action by that point. They threatened him with a court-martial and Will knew he had to gain control, otherwise he'd be put in front of the firing squad for his ‘cowardice’.

It took him weeks, but eventually he was able to find steady ground. He used his father’s breathing technique near religiously, and he found himself meditating or counting things to keep his mind occupied with the outside world rather than the turbulent minds that surrounded him. The officers, believing he had come to his senses, let him be with nothing more than cautious glances, and he was overlooked once more. But it was all he could do some days to keep himself together, especially in that first year.

Then Thiepval happened, and he learned a new kind of horror.

Thousands of men died on that god-forsaken ridge. His fellow men mowed down next to him, there one moment, gone the next. Men, alive and bright, filled with panic and terror, killed so abruptly. Snuffed out like candles. And though the sensations did not belong to him, Will had never felt death so viscerally before in his life—like his soul was ripped from his body same as the men bleeding out in the dirt.

The resulting three months of battle saw Will’s sanity toeing a thin line. All the work he’d done months previously were for nothing—undone by the first day over the top.

(Will’s ears and nose bled for days after that first rush. He’s sure that he tried to put a pistol to his head at one point.)

He thinks he died on that battlefield. He was still breathing, despite it all, but his insides were hollowed and scraped clean, leaving nothing but a lifeless shell of a man that could do nothing more but keep breathing. Keep moving forward. Keep pressing on.

By the end, his mind felt just as wrenched, broken. He’d heard the thoughts of the wounded and the dying—the pain and the hopelessness and the cries for mothers and the pleas to God. He’d felt men die (some by his own hands). There was no coming back from that whole.

He doesn’t quite remember Thiepval. The Somme is nothing more than a haze in his mind. He has no idea how he survived—he was nearly catatonic for most of it.

He came out of it alright, though—that’s what most people say. At least he survived. He even got himself a medal.

(He traded it the first chance he got. Some French captain giving him a cheap bottle of wine in exchange.)

No. He wouldn’t consider what he could do a _gift_. It was a curse—a curse that would kill him, eventually. Just like it did his father.

Will couldn’t find it in himself to be terribly upset about that.

Will grits his teeth as the lorry drives over another bump, sending the men lurching into each other and throwing out loud expletives to the driver. They were packed like sardines into a convoy of trucks making their way further north to the new line and the annoyance and anticipation of the other men was grating on Will’s nerves. It made his own anxieties rear up unpleasantly. The brass were always so eager to send them to more dangerous ground. Will knew it would only be a matter of time before the 8th was called on again. The few months of reprieve they got was a fool’s paradise. Time to go back into the fray, _for King and Country_ and all the other shite they liked to spout off.

Laughter sounds from the front of the truck and amusement mixes with the sharpness of the cabin, distracting Will briefly. Blake, the source of the entertainment and who was squeezed in on his right, was happily chatting away to anyone that would listen, telling one of his many stories that had the lads rolling. Ever the social butterfly, Will thinks.

He barely pays attention to the commotion—instead, he has his tobacco tin open, leafing through the photos he has stashed there. The faces of his family—his sister and his nieces—stare up at him and really, he could only look at them for so long before their accusatory stares became too much and he has to close his tin once more. He stuffs it back into his breast pocket, the movement jostling Blake, taking his attention away from the other men.

“Whatcha got there, Sco?” Will rolls his eyes at the nickname the boy’s taken to calling him by.

“Don’t call me that,” he grunts. Blake just grins.

“Got whiskey on ya, then?” he whispers slyly. “Maybe some chocolate? Heard Perry got some from a French private the other day. Lucky bastard. I miss the fuck out of chocolate.”

Will sighs and closes his eyes. He was not in the mood for Blake’s yammering. Travel was shit enough in this bloody war without them being forced to basically sit on top of one another and for their driver to hit every bloody bump and hole in the road. Add in the emotional state of the cabin and crowded thoughts of the tired, irritated men around him and Will was having himself a grand time.

“Sco. Hey Sco. Sco.”

Will gives a world-weary sigh. “What, Blake?” He can sense curiosity coming from the younger man, which is never a good sign.

“Tell me about yourself,” Blake says. Will opens his eyes, giving Blake a side glance. The boy shrugs, unperturbed by his glare. “I’ve told you everything about myself these past few weeks, but for all you speak, it feels like I barely know you!”

And he has. Blake’s been following him around (which for the life of him he can’t figure out why), spouting off nonsense every chance he gets. He’s from Essex. He lives with is mum and his brother on their family farm. He has a dog named Myrtle. He joined the war because his brother did. He tried to enlist when he was sixteen but was denied and had to wait until he was eighteen to be accepted. He’s told many amusing stories in between, but Will can’t remember them all. So yes, Blake has told him a lot about himself. It’s hard to get him to talk about anything else.

(Will was more guarded. A product of his upbringing, having to hide who he was, what he could do. Being secretive was part of his nature, drilled into him by his father since he was young. It was a hard habit to break.)

“Nothing to tell, really,” he chooses to reply. He ignores the disappointment coming off of Blake.

“Oh, c’mon, Sco!" the boy complains. "You can’t be _that_ boring. Tell me something—anything! What was your job? Do you have any pets? What about your family?”

— _wonder if he has a wife_ —

Will holds back a grimace.

Blake’s is giving him an imploring look and Will sighs for what feels like the hundredth time. Nosy little bastard.

“I was a miner,” Will finally says.

He sees Blake’s face light up with the information. “Really? A miner—what was that like?”

Will thinks about it for a moment. Thinks about the village his family had lived in, the small coal field it sat on and the equally small mine pit his father had worked. It wasn’t a big vein, but it was big enough to empty a couple a tons a year. When his father passed, Will went to work in the mines. He hated every minute of it.

“Dark. Hot,” he settles on.

Blake raises an eyebrow. “I’d imagine. Dangerous work, was it?”

He remembers a cave-in during his first month down in the mines. Three men died. He was lucky to not have been the fourth. “Yes.”

Blake makes a small sound. “It sounds interesting,” he comments, seemingly unfazed by Will’s monosyllabic answers. “I worked the fields for our neighbors sometimes. Nothin’ too big, just some barley and wheat crops. Joe used to help when he was off of school. Then there was the family orchard. Again, nothin’ too grand, but enough that we made some good money off it. Can’t imagine workin’ underground like that, though.”

Will swallows and doesn't comment.

"What about your family? Any siblings? A wife, maybe?"

_—bet he’s got a wife. Bloke like him, there’s no way he doesn’t—_

Will prays for patience. It was like the boy was trying to pull teeth. Before he could open his mouth to tell Blake to stop bothering him, the truck lurches again, sending the men tumbling into each other. Will ends up in Blake's lap, scrambling to right himself with the weight of the man to his left on top of him. Will’s so frustrated he barely notices the embarrassment coming off of Blake.

“Oi! Mind gettin’ off him, mate?”

The weight is lifted from Will, the man beside him giving an apology as Blake helps him sit upright again. There’s a flush on the younger man’s cheeks, and a strange, heated emotion that he can’t quite place is coming off him. Blake barely meets his eyes as Will rights himself.

“Alright there, Sco?”

Will nods, giving the younger man a quiet thanks and settling against the bench once more. Blake doesn’t say anything and Will takes a few minutes to do his breathing exercises. His head throbs with every breath. He wishes they’d hurry up and bloody get there. He hates being around so many people.

He nearly groans when Blake turns to him again, intent replacing the embarrassment from a few minutes ago.

“You don’t have to spill your secrets, Sco, but it would be nice to learn something about ya,” the boy says, looking put out. The furrow in his brow and the defeated tone of his voice makes Will’s gut twist uncomfortably.

Will’s never had a friend before. As sad as it is, he’s never had a need for any. He has his sister, his nieces, and for a shorter amount of time, he had his father. They were all he needed. But here Blake was, putting an enormous amount of effort into being his friend, and even though Will couldn’t understand why, maybe he could make an effort, too. The lad was decent enough, definitely stubborn enough, and he put up with Will, which was more than anyone else in the company could do. Will can admit that he could do a lot worse than Blake’s friendship.

He was still a private person, though. There were things about himself he couldn’t reveal to anyone here, even Blake. But maybe he could start out small?

He clears his throat, getting Blake’s attention.

“My favorite color’s green,” he offers hesitantly, barely stopping a wince. He feels like a bloody idiot.

Blake just blinks at him before bursting out laughing.

“I guess that’s a start,” he concedes with a crooked smile, bumping Will’s shoulder with his. “A miner who likes the color green. _Fascinating_. I should write about it in the company newsletter.”

Will scoffs, hiding a smile—something he finds himself doing a lot around Blake.

Blake leans in again and whispers, “My favorite color’s blue, by the way.” Like he’s divulging a big secret.

The sudden giddiness he feels from Blake is contagious and he finds himself actually smiling at the boy—small and just a bit brittle around the edges, but still a smile. Blake’s grins gets bigger in response, his cheeks flushed once more, and Will’s starting to worry if the boy’s got a fever. Blake seems alright, though, if a bit nervous for some reason.

“Fantastic.” Will’s voice is dry, but his small smile is still there despite him. “Are we done?”

“For now,” Blake shoots back, grin not leaving his face.

_I’ll learn all his secrets in no time._

Will smirks quietly. He’d like to see the boy try.

He closes his eyes and attempts to relax once more. Blake, finally taking the hint, leaves him be, seemingly content for the moment as he turns to the other men and joins their conversation. He feels smug satisfaction from the younger man and can’t help the fondness slowly blooming in his chest in return. Blimey, what was this boy doing to him?

Blake was thinking of home again.

 _Wonder if mum’s doing alright. I should probably write her a letter tonight. Joe’s probably written her one this week, already. Can’t let him outdo me. I hope Myrtle’s well. She’s probably driving mum mad. I’ll have to ask after her in my letter_ —

Will puts a little more effort into his digging, trying to focus more on the men shoveling the new trench with them rather than intrude on Blake’s musings. Blake is his friend, admittedly his first friend here, and it doesn’t sit right with him to listen in on his every thought. The younger man made it difficult, though. His mind was oddly louder than anyone else’s to Will, and recently he’s found it near-impossible to ignore him, much less focus on anyone else for very long.

(He admits to himself, guiltily, that he doesn't mind it that much. Still makes him feel like a right bastard, though.)

Blake suddenly loses his footing beside him, nearly impaling himself on his shovel and bringing Will back to the present. He reaches out and steadies the younger man, giving him an exasperated look.

“Be careful, Blake,” he grouses before turning back to his patch of dirt. He hears Blake snicker.

 _He’s such a mother hen_.

“You know, I can take care of myself, Sco. I’m not a child,” the younger man jokes, grinning at him. His teeth are stark white against his dirty face.

“I told you not to call me that,” Will grunts, throwing a pile of dirt behind him and ignoring his reddening ears. There’s no heat in his words. He doesn’t want to admit that every time Blake calls him that, a peculiar warmth fills his chest.

Blake pouts at him, leaning on his shovel. “Well, you won’t call me _Tom_ , no matter how many times I tell ya to. And _Schofield_ is an effing mouthful. So, _Sco_ it is!”

Will huffs. “It’s bloody stupid.”

Blake’s amusement is bright.

“I like it. It makes you seem _enigmatic_.”

Will smirks. “Using big words there, Blake.”

“Oi!” Blake crows, indignant. “I’ll have you know I’m proper educated, you twat!”

Will can’t hold back a startled laugh, the sound catching in his chest after so long. “I’m sure.”

Blake doesn’t reply for a moment. Will continues his methodical shoveling.

 _Sco should laugh more often. He has a nice laugh_.

Will’s movements stutter and his shovel scrapes uselessly against the dirt. He feels his face redden under his helmet, his stomach swooping oddly. He tries not look at Blake as gets back to work.

He’s distracted from Blake when Sanders comes around and gets on to the boy for slacking, telling him to get back to work or he was on latrine duty for the week. Blake curses the man up a storm in his head as he walks away and Will has to keep from laughing outright. They continue their work in silence, not wanting to catch the sergeant’s ire again.

Blake’s thoughts continue to flow over to him like a gentle current.

— _so fuckin’ hungry. They never fuckin’ feed us. What I wouldn’t give for one of mum’s cherry pies right about now. Maybe she can send me some_. _See if she could send some for Sco, too. Bet he would like that_ —

Will holds back a small smile as fondness fills him. Always thinking with his stomach, the boy is. He can’t say he wouldn’t mind some pie, though. He’s never had cherry.

— _I think mum would like Sco. Always so bloody polite, she’d probably like him more than me. She’d think he was too skinny and want to fatten him up. And Joe would get on well with him I’m sure. I’ll have to tell them about Sco in my letters. How he’s my best mate, how he looks out for me, even if he acts annoyed by it. Probably shouldn’t mention how handsome he is, though_ —

Will just barely misses impaling his foot with his shovel. His face was on fire. He desperately tries to focus on one of the other men, again—he _did not_ want to eavesdrop on _this_ —but to no avail. Blake was just too loud.

— _yeah, definitely shouldn’t mention that. I’ll just tell them how brave he is, fightin’ in the Somme and all. And how kind he is, even if he can be a sour bastard most days. And how he puts up with my rambling, they’ll be impressed by that—_

It goes on like that for a while, like Blake is mentally writing his letter to his mum and brother, singing Will’s praises. The fondness that accompanies the thoughts makes Will's skin itch. He almost wishes the earth would just swallow him up already and save him the mortification of hearing these things.

(Will had no idea Blake felt that way about him. Like Will was the best mate he’d ever had. It was startling and left him feeling wholly inadequate, like an imposter.)

Thankfully, the younger man’s thoughts soon drift into safer territory.

— _bet Sco would like Myrtle if he met her. She’s a great dog. She would definitely like him, she likes everybody. But what if he doesn’t like dogs? He’s never said. I can’t be mates with someone who doesn’t like dogs_ —

“Hey, Sco, you like dogs?”

Will knew the moment he woke up that morning that it was going to be an absolutely grueling day.

Headaches were a normal thing for him—how could they not be with his mind exposed the way it was? The steady ache was an old friend that never left him. It could be anything from a dull throb to a piercing agony that felt like an ice pick had been shoved into his brain. As a child his father used to give him a drop of opium under his tongue whenever it got too bad. It helped, if only a little. He often thought of going to the medics and begging morphine off of them, but he knew that medical supplies were vital in a place like this. Wasting any on his own pain when he could very well power through didn’t sit right with him, so he suffered in silence. Some days it was manageable. Others left him near-incoherent.

The pain is more noticeable today. When he opens his eyes to the dirt walls of the trench, he know he's going to be basically useless the rest of the day. Pain radiates up the back of his neck and into his head, giving a steady throb with every beat of his heart. He feels nauseous and his vision can't seem to focus on anything in front of him. He holds back a frustrated sob as he extracts himself from his hole. There's no use in wallowing, nothing could be done for him.

He ignores the looks Blake gives him throughout their usual tasks, ones he knows are full of concern—no doubt for his pale and drawn appearance. Will can’t focus on Blake as easily as he usually can, but he can feel the worry rushing off of him like a storm. Blake eventually stops trying to draw him into conversation when the only response he gives are grunts, but the concern remains. Will swallows as he continues his mornings tasks, trying not to throw up on his shoes.

Luck seems to be on his side, though, because after morning stand-to and cleaning out their areas and weapons, they are rotated out and released to downtime. Will nearly sobs in relief.

They file out of the trench, exiting on to the trodden earth of upper ground. The camp surrounds the entrance to the trenches, but further out there is a grassy field with a few sparse trees. Will makes for one of them, his usual spot, eager to get away from the rest of the company and give his splitting head some rest.

He drops down against a sturdy trunk, jarring his head and making spots dance in front of his eyes. He clenches his eyes shut with a whimper. He takes his helmet off and rests his head again the bark, sighing miserably. He breathes deeply in and out, counting the inhales and exhales in his head. His stomach rolls and he tries to keep from losing his breakfast.

Will startles when someone sits down near him. His eyes fly open and land on Blake. He’d almost forgotten boy, who tends to follow him everywhere like a lost puppy.

Blake is looking at him, his brow furrowed in concern.

 _Fuck, Sco doesn’t look so good_.

“You alright, Sco? You look a bit green,” he says, and Will can’t stop the flinch.

“Please talk quietly,” Will whispers, clenching his eyes shut. Even saying those few words sends spikes through his head.

He hears Blake’s quiet hum of concern, feels his worry, before it morphs into something like dawning understanding.

 _Oh, he must have a_ —

“Do you have a headache?” Blake asks, his voice barely above a whisper. Will is appreciative.

He gives a slight nod, barely a movement, but Blake seems to understand. He feels the boy’s sympathy roll over him like a cool breeze.

He hears Blake shift beside him, coming closer until he’s settled next to Will. Will doesn’t open his eyes. He’s still trying to breathe through most of the pain.

“It looks like a bad one,” he hears Blake note. His voice is still lowered and Will has never been more grateful to his friend. “Do you get them often?”

Will let’s out a shaky breath. “Yes.”

Blake doesn’t say anything for a moment. Will hopes that’s the end of the conversation.

“My mum gets them sometimes,” Blake finally pipes up. “Bad ones, like yours. It leaves her knackered all day.”

Will wants to say that they’re probably nothing like his, but he refrains.

A sudden sense of indecision comes from Blake—a nervous anticipation, like he’s unsure of what he’s about to do.

 _He’ll probably think it’s weird, won’t want to do it_ —

“I could help you,” the younger man blurts and sheepishness rolls off of him. “I mean—I help my mum with them all the time.”

The innocent statement startles Will so much that he opens his eyes and turns to squint at Blake. The boy’s looking at him with concern etched into his young face.

“What?”

Blake stares for a moment, biting his lip nervously. Then he starts to remove his webbing and jerkin, much to Will’s confusion, until he’s able to remove his jacket.

“Put your head in my lap,” Blake says.

“...What?”

Now Blake rolls his eyes, fond exasperation coming off of him. He shakes his jacket. “Lay your head in my lap and I’ll put my jacket over you. My mum uses a blanket, but since we don’t have one, my jacket will do. It’ll help block out everything, give you some rest.”

Will’s mind comes to a halt. It’s a simple request. A very thoughtful one. And it sounds like it would work wonders. He still hesitates.

“Look, don’t make it weird or anything. It’s just a guy helping his mate out.” Blake insists. He smiles, encouraging. “Lie down, Sco. It’ll help.”

And Will does. He gingerly angles his body until he’s horizontal, able to rest his aching head on Blake’s lap like he’s instructed. He’s facing up, his eyes closed against the sun. He feels Blake move and suddenly his face is covered with thick wool material—Blake’s jacket. It helps to soften outside sounds and blocks off the light shining through the tree above them. It doesn’t block out the minds of the soldiers resting around them, but the simple act of lying down, his head pillowed on something soft, and his ordinary senses being muffled by the warm material, makes him nearly shudder in relief.

(Will notes absently that Blake’s jacket smells like him. It smells nice.)

“There, now. Does that feel better?” Blake’s voice is closer due to their position, but he still keeps it quiet. Will feels the vibration through the boy’s legs, the low cadence soothing him.

“Yes,” Will replies sincerely, his voice muffled under the jacket. “Won’t you be cold?” There’s still a chill in the air, even though spring is fast approaching.

“I’ll be alright,” Blake assures him. “I run hot, it’s no bother. Just rest, Sco.”

Will relaxes even more. His headache is still there, it always will be while he’s surrounded by so many people, but the stabbing pain that has been with him all morning is slowly ebbing, becoming blessedly manageable.

“Thank you,” he breathes. He’s surprisingly starting to drift off.

He feels a hand land on his head, a thumb rubbing softly over his forehead through the jacket. Will sighs at the feeling, and in his drowsy state, he unconsciously turns his face towards Blake, inches from his stomach, and nuzzles closer. He feels Blake stiffen underneath him, his hand spasming, but his fingers continue their calming movements. Will feels his emotions jump from warmth to nervousness, before relaxing once more.

Blake doesn’t speak. His thoughts are soft, if a little fitful, as Will dozes.

 _I am a bloody fucking idiot! Why did I suggest this?_ _Oh God oh God ok it’s alright it’s nothing just keep calm. So what if he’s lying in my lap? It’s just one friend helping another, that’s all. Nothing to get worked up about. Fuck, what am I saying? I’m doomed._

Will should probably be concerned with the anxiety coming off the boy, but he’s still riding the residual pain of his headache, so he can’t be bothered at the moment.

He’s nearly drifted off when he hears it.

_Wish I could have him this close all the time._

Such an odd thing to think, Will muses, as he falls asleep, Blake a warm presence underneath him.

Will was slowly getting used to the stridency of battle once more.

The Somme damaged him. He knows this. But he's finding his strength again bit by bit. He hasn't experienced anything like Thiepval since being transferred to the 8th, so it's allowed his mind to heal, to fortify somewhat. It was silent by no means, but he was given a small reprieve. The tedious rotations through the trench lines may have brought the danger of sniper's bullets and stray shellbursts throughout the day and night, but Will knows that it could be a lot worse. The men think with more caution and displeasure and boredom than overwhelming panic and terror. It was easier to manage. The supply runs, sentry duties, and random work assignments kept him plenty occupied, especially since Blake volunteered with him any chance he got.

Currently they're huddled in Will’s dug out in the wall along the support trench. Artillery flashes light up the night sky as the Germans barrage them on and off. The front line trench is taking the brunt of the attacks, but stray shells still found their way over to them every so often. Will can’t find it in himself to hide his flinches.

A particularly loud blast lands not far from them, shaking the ground underneath them, and Will hears Blake whimper beside him. He glances down at the younger man and isn't surprised to see the fear shadowing his face, thrown into stark clarity by the fading shell flash. He's felt the steady thrum of it coming off of him for hours. Will's reminded that this is the most action Blake has seen up to this point

— _oh god that one was too close we're going to be hit fuck I can't oh god I don't want to die please stop make them stop—_

The younger man is shaking, his hands white where they clutch his rifle against him. He’s hunched over, head bowed against the onslaught around them.

— _I don’t want to be here I want to go home why did they make us come here this is horrible_ —

Blake eventually notices him looking and Will can see when he hardens himself, his face going blank as he tries to force down his fear.

_I can't let Sco see me like this he'll think I'm a coward._

Oh, Blake. Such a brave, stupid boy.

Blake was so easy to read, even without Will being able to hear his thoughts. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and Will doesn’t know whether to find that endearing or naive. The younger man was so expressive—his face, his hand movements, the way he moved his body, they all gave away exactly what he was thinking or feeling at any given moment. Sometimes Will thought that he didn’t even need to be able to read Blake to understand him. He gave it away so easily in physical ways that Will was becoming a master at interpreting his moods. And he knew in this moment, Blake was terrified, and yet he was trying to hide it.

Will turns away, giving Blake some privacy to shore himself up. Another shell lands and someone screams in the distance (a candle snuffs out). They both flinch.

Blake’s shaking again and Will finds words bubbling up from within him without his permission.

“You never get used to it," Will blurts out. He doesn’t know what makes him say it. He feels Blake startle beside him.

"What?"

Will takes a shaky breath. He feels he needs to say this, Blake deserves at least some comfort. He draws on some of the younger man's fear to spur his words. "The sound, right before it hits. You don't know where it’s going to land, or if you'll be next." He swallows thickly. "It’s terrifying."

He feels Blake's cautious understanding. His thoughts are still full of panicked anxiety, but he seems to be paying attention to Will’s words.

"You're scared?" Blake asks in disbelief.

"Of course I am," Will admits quietly. He looks back at Blake, catching his eye and trying to reassure him. Although, he’s fairly sure he comes off a bit strained. "We all are. That's nothing to be ashamed of. We could die any second. It's only natural."

Bloody hell, he’s terrible at this.

Blake's expression is unreadable, but his lips thin as he contemplates Will's words.

 _Sco is scared, too, it's ok to be scared, it’s normal_.

Another loud blast sees Blake grabbing Will’s wrist in a vice grip, his shaking hand clenching it white. He seems to catch himself after a beat and tries to pull back, but Will just shifts his hand until its holding Blake's wrist back. He can feel the boy’s steady pulse under his palm. Will stares into Blake's eyes, something passing between them.

"We'll be alright, Blake," he says calmly as he can manage. "It may not seem like it right now, but we'll be alright."

Blake's lips tremble and he squeezes Will's wrist. A quiet sense of awe comes from him before settling into something achingly fond—all directed towards Will.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

 _I'm so glad I met Sco_.

Will nods and spares Blake a small smile, hoping the man can’t see the blush in his cheeks in the dark. His thoughts seem a bit less chaotic. Will feels a small sense of accomplishment. He may not be good for much, but at least he was good for this. As long as he can help Blake in this way, he‘s satisfied.

They end up shifting closer during the night, sitting flush against one another, shoulders to ankles. They don’t let go of each other’s wrists, squeezing intermittently to provide comfort to the other.

They find a routine in this. The nights they’re hunkered down in the trench, shells raining down on them, they stay close and hold wrists. Counting each other’s pulse, letting the other know that someone is there. It’s as much comfort as they can afford to give, but Will’s glad for it all the same.

It was comfortable being around Blake.

Will doesn’t know when it’d gotten to that point, but one day he looks over and Blake is beside him as usual and he can’t seem to find the bitterness he once felt about being around another person. Blake is the closest friend he’s ever had, and it was a strange feeling—being so close to someone; being able to rely on them. It was different from the relationship he shared with his sister; even the one he shared with his father.

Will felt awkward all the time, unaccustomed to any kind of friendship, but Blake made up for it in spades. Where Will barely contributed to the conversation, Blake filled the silence naturally. Where Will’s surly demeanor tended to put other people off, Blake took in stride and treated him with the same cheery, playful banter as he always did, even on the bad days.

The man even helped him with his headaches. And shared his rations with him. And warned people off _their spot_ at the tree. And he often helped Will with chores or volunteered with him for supply runs.

He was always there, by Will’s side. He’s never had anyone like that before, and it only took a war for Will to find someone willing to stick it out with him.

And Will had hoped that Blake felt the same ease around him that Will felt with him, but lately he was beginning to question that.

Blake was acting odd—timid almost. It was throwing Will off. He wasn’t sure what the matter was.

He wasn’t, that is, until Blake had to go and bloody ruin _everything_.

He’s laughing at one of Blake’s jokes on one of their rare days of leisure, a rather foul one that he’s quite sure that even his sister would be scandalized by, when he hears it.

 _God, I love his laugh_.

That, and the accompanying warmth, has Will immediately choking on his spit. Blake slaps his back, trying to help.

“You alright there, Sco?”

Will manages a hoarse _yes_ , even though his pulse has sped up drastically. Blake doesn’t seem to notice his distress, going off on another humorous tangent about his older brother. But Will can’t forget what he heard. About himself. Blake using _that_ word.

And it doesn’t stop there.

Will often catches Blake looking at him. Sidelong glances that are immediately hidden, or outright staring when he thinks Will isn’t looking. Even when Will _wasn’t_ looking, he could feel Blake’s stare on him like a laser focus, could feel the emotions directed at him from the younger man. All ranging from fondness, to exasperation, to a queer warmth that Will couldn’t quite place.

And the thoughts that the boy had. Bloody hell.

 _Sco has really nice eyes. They’re so blue. Like the ocean. And he gets a crinkle around them when he smiles. It’s so fucking adorable_.

 _Wish I could touch his hair. Bet its soft. Looks soft. Just want to run my hands through it, just once_.

_Bloody hell, the bastard’s got freckles, that’s just not fair!_

_Sco’s proper fit, isn’t he? Never really notice, but he’s a broad bloke. Bet he’s fit_.

_It’s so easy to make him blush. Even his fucking ears are red. Wonder how far down that blush goes?_

_Those hands, God, those hands. Wish they would touch me. They’re so big._

_Sco has a gorgeous lips, wonder what they taste like_?

It’s not like he’s never heard those things before about himself. He has—from women, though, not—

He’s not sure what to do about it. He thinks he’s starting to go mad from it.

He starts to shy away from Blake. It was unconscious, really. He didn’t know how to act around the younger man now. Hearing those things, private and incriminating in a way that Blake would surely not want anyone to know about, were open to Will, and he feels like he’s betrayed Blake’s trust in the worst way. No matter what they were actually implying.

Breaking away from the other man was a lot harder than Will anticipated, though. They were so ingrained into each other’s routines that the moment he tried to distance himself, Blake was immediately aware and became upset.

 _Have I done something? Is he finally getting tired of me? Knew it would only be a matter of time. I’m an annoying bastard_.

And that definitely didn’t sit right with Will. Nor did the uncertainty and insecurity shooting off of Blake that did nothing but set his teeth on edge and make him feel fucking ashamed for avoiding younger man. He could only keep the distance for a few days before he caved and returned, giving a silent apology, and playing it off as one of his moods. He was easily forgiven, which made him feel even worse.

Will resolves to just ignore Blake’s rather… _compromising_ thoughts about him. They were meant to be private, anyways. It was none of Will’s business, especially since Blake didn’t treat him any different than when they first met. He still treated him as nothing more than a close friend, his feelings being the only thing to the contrary. He never attempted to act on them (even though a small part of Will that he tries to shove down deep inside himself wonders why he hasn’t already).

Yes, Will could ignore them for the sake of their friendship. Or he could try his damned hardest. Blake made it fucking difficult, though.

(That small part of Will, not nearly as deeply buried as he’d like it to be, desperately wanted to acknowledge those feelings, and return them in kind. If only Will himself was ready for such things.)

The panicked call of _Gas! Gas!_ has them all scrambling to get their masks on, the trench a chaotic flurry of fumbling and yelling. Will gets his on with practiced ease, fitting his helmet on just as the first hint of yellow gas breeches the lip of their trench. He frantically looks over to Blake, seeing the boy with his mask and helmet in place, and he breathes out a sigh of relief.

The whistle of incoming shells the next second has Will’s stomach dropping, and he watches from the green tinted glass of his mask as several land in their trench. There are muffled sounds of explosive charges going off and the unmistakable hiss of released gas.

The men start evacuating further up the line. Will turns and grabs for Blake, intending to drag the boy with him to the safety of the reserve trench. He doesn’t resist, but Will’s not taken one step before Blake is jerked from his hold with a loud whistle and clang of metal.

Will spins around and is met with the sight of Blake sprawled out on the ground, a massive dent in his helmet and his mask hanging off his face. A hissing canister lies next to his prone form. Will's heart seizes.

Blake's face is open to the air. He's exposed to the gas.

“Blake! BLAKE!” Will falls down beside him. He doesn’t respond. There’s a dazed look in the boy’s eyes, stunned from the blow to the head. Acting quickly, Will readjusts the mask on Blake’s face before grabbing the boy’s jerkin and yanking him away from the emptying canister. He's already coughing by the time Will gets him a few metres away. There's no doubt he's inhaled a few lungfuls while his mask was down.

“Blake? Blake we need to move! Come on!”

He tries to coax the boy up, but Blake is unresponsive, his head lolling on his shoulders and his breath chocking and wheezing. Will can’t see his face behind the mask, but if he concentrates enough past his own terror he can sense the disoriented confusion coming from the boy.

Blake lets out a loud, hacking cough and Will’s fear ratchets. How much has he inhaled before Will could reach him?

Blake was no help, so Will hefts the younger man up and drapes his arm over his shoulder. He sags under the boy’s weight for only a second before adrenaline kicks in and he’s dragging Blake down the trench. The boy’s feet scramble for purchase in the dirt, but Will doesn’t slow, pulling his friend to safety.

He doesn’t stop until he’s reached the reserve, calling for a medic the moment he clears the crowded entrance.

“What’s happened, then?” the medic asks as he helps Will lower Blake to the ground. He immediately begins checking the younger man over.

“Hit with a gas shell,” Will explains shortly. “Knocked his mask off. He breathed in the gas before I could get to him.”

He goes to remove his mask but the medic stops him.

“Keep that on, you bloody fool, we’re downwind.” He turns back to Blake, motioning to another medic. “Let’s get ‘im on a stretcher.”

They roll Blake onto one of the waiting stretches and the medics rush him to the aid post. Not willing to leave him on his own, Will follows behind. There are other soldiers being carried to the medical tents, but Will only has eyes for Blake. The boy still seems out of it, not responding to the medics’ questions. His thoughts are unintelligible, disoriented, and Will can't hold back his dread.

They make it to the aid post and Blake is swiftly moved to a cot, a doctor materializing at his side radiating a cool professionalism that makes Will shiver. Blake's helmet and mask are promptly removed, revealing a sizable bump on his forehead. He’s still hacking and choking, his eyes and nose running like a fountain, his face red and strained. He’s conscious, if barely. His watery eyes open, but not looking at anything.

“Lucky bastard. Wasn’t for his helmet, his head would've been crack open for sure,” the doctor comments blandly as he inspects Blake's head wound. Will feels sick. The doctor leans in and observes the boy’s eyes, checks his airway. “Concussed. Minor exposed to gas. He’ll need a treatment of oxygen. Overall, nothing too dire.”

Will can’t help the incredulity he feels at that statement.

The doctor spares a glance at Will, who’s still standing there, frozen. “If you’re not injured, lance corporal, then clear out.”

Will wants to stay, doesn’t want to leave Blake. There’s a desperate need to keep the boy in sight and it takes over him with such ferocity that he almost fights the doctor on it. But Will is aware that his presence would only be a hindrance. This man needed to take care of Blake and he would only be in the way.

Feeling disconnected in a sickeningly familiar way, Will nods to the doctor, staring at Blake a moment longer before turning and stumbling out of the tent just as another wave of injured are brought in.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, he only knows that he needs to get away. There’s a loud rushing in his ears and a pressure building in his chest that makes him want to vomit. He ends up behind a random tent, empty at the moment, and collapses against the bracing post. His breathing is coming fast and thin and he feels smothered. He realizes that his mask is still on his face and he rips it off and throws it to the ground in barely contained rage, letting out a short yell as it rolls away from him. His hands are shaking— his whole body is shaking. His heart is beating rapidly and he brings a trembling hand to his chest like if he holds it there hard enough his heart won’t beat right out of his chest and into the dirt by his feet.

Part of this is from his time at Thiepval, he knows—it's been lying in wait to steal his breath away, to swallow him whole again. He’s been in gas attacks before—seen men suffocate and drown in their own fluids—it's something he can't forget, no matter how hard he tries. Seeing Blake choking, straining to breathe—

The guilt nearly eats him alive. He should've done more. He should've been faster—if he'd just gotten Blake out of there quicker, pulled him out of the path of the shell, maybe he wouldn’t be laid up in a bloody aid post fighting for each breath and barely conscious. Despite the doctor’s surety in Blake’s recovery, what if something went wrong? He’s seen the delayed effects of phosgene gas before—was mustard gas similar? He’s sure he knows the answer, but he can’t think straight at the moment.

Useless. _Useless_. Even with his fucking _gifts_ , he was nothing but useless—couldn’t figure out how to keep the ones he cares about safe.

If Blake—If he didn’t—Will didn’t know what he would—

His fingers dig into the grass below him and wants to scream, but his throat clogs with a sob instead that has him fighting to swallow back tears. What was _wrong_ with him? Why was he reacting this way? Sure, Blake was his friend, his closest friend, but it wasn’t so long ago that Will went to great lengths to keep everyone at arm’s length, _including_ Blake. After the Somme, he realized there was no point in making friends, only to watch them die during the next battle. He’d gotten close to Blake, sure (against his will), but why, in God’s name, was he losing it over a boy he’s known for only a handful of months? It’s something he doesn’t want to look too closely at but can’t seem to look away from at the same time. Painful in such a way that something in him wishes things would just go back to the way they were before Blake showed up in his life. Another part of him recoils at that thought, and he’s never felt so torn in his life.

Will sucks in a stuttering breath. He’s spiraling. He needs to get a hold of himself. 

He hasn’t felt this raw, this vulnerable in a long time—it takes him longer than he’d like to reign himself in. He focuses on the fact that, for all he knew, Blake could be dying, and here he was, having a breakdown over his own ineptitude. He needs to be better than this. He tries to compose himself, tries to close the floodgates that have burst open despite his insistence, but it’s a fragile thing. He takes another unsteady breath, running through his breathing exercises clumsily. His chest still feels like it’s going to burst any moment, but he tries to steady himself as best he can. The men will think he’s gone mad if they come across him like this.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been there, but the hysteria eventually clears from his head and the thoughts of the company filter in once more. There’s noise coming from the camp behind him. Long enough, then.

He brings himself to his feet, feeling shaky and exhausted. He should get some rest, but instead he makes his way back to the aid post. It's cleared out since he was last there, but there are plenty of men still lying on cots and medics steadily making rounds.

Blake is where he left him and Will makes a beeline for him, anxious in a way that has his heart racing again. The boy’s kit has been removed, leaving him in just his uniform. It makes him look impossibly small and pathetic. There's a bandage wrapped around his head and his breathing is much steadier, just a hint of a wheeze remaining. Will almost expects the see the same dazed look from earlier as he gets nearer, but Blake’s eyes are closed and his mind is blank and blessedly still. A stillness that means unconsciousness, not death.

Will nearly collapses in relief. He comes to stand beside Blake's cot, taking time to calm his nerves. Being close to Blake, alive, breathing, helps immensely, but he still reaches out and grasps the boy’s wrist, feeling for his pulse. The steady thrum meets his fingertips readily.

He doesn't know what this feeling is inside him. This heart-wrenching fear and panic that has his throat closing and his heart pounding, despite the obvious relief he feels at seeing Blake alive. It doesn’t explain his distress from earlier and it doesn’t explain this unnatural need to be close to the boy, to make sure he’s alright. It doesn’t make any _sense_.

But when he takes a moment to look at Blake, properly look at him—his young face, the slight furrow of his brow in sleep, the arch of his nose, the curve of his lips, the overwhelming familiarity of the boy’s presence—he realizes, in the pit of his stomach, that maybe...maybe it does.

Blake is—Will doesn’t know how to describe what Blake means to him. Nor does he know how to describe this feeling inside him. This warm, delicate, uncomfortable, all-encompassing feeling that has wormed its way inside him and refuses to leave. Every time Blake looks at him, talks to him, touches him, _thinks_ about him. It’s maddening, it’s unbearable, it’s—

Something clicks inside him. Will blinks.

Oh.

He thinks he understand, now.

Blake means more to him than he’s tried to make himself believe. Somehow the boy's burrowed into him, made himself a home, and in the process endeared himself to Will so much that these feelings have been allowed to develop, to flourish without Will even knowing it. He feels blindsided, but at the same time so unsurprised that he feels foolish.

He feels something settle in him, then. Holding Blake’s wrist, gazing at his sleeping face, Will feels a surety, an undeniable truth:

Blake is his.

It’s a possessive thing. Will is almost unnerved by it, but he finds that he doesn’t much care at the moment. Blake is alive, he’s breathing, and Will has finally realized that Blake is important to him. Significantly important. It’s almost heady. Laying claim to the boy at this point just felt like a natural progression of things.

Blake is his.

Blake is his and he is Blake’s. That’s it.

Now Will is the one in a daze. Ignoring the fact that there are still other people present, Will makes himself comfortable on the ground beside Blake’s cot. He hasn’t let go of the younger man’s wrist and he doesn’t intend to any time soon—propriety be damned—just leans himself against the cot and lays his head down near Blake’s hip. He watches Blake breathe and listens for any hitches or signs of distress. He swims in the peaceful stillness of the boy’s mind until his exhaustion catches up with him and he begins to drift. Still he watches Blake.

He hopes the boy wakes soon. Things were terribly quiet without him.

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of loved writing this? Just trying to figure out how Will's powers worked was thrilling. I mean, when I think of how my own mind works—how chaotic it is, how I actually don't think in full sentences or any type of coherency, or how I actually think in a combination of pictures, music, and made-up scenes for the stories in my head (I think Prof X has it way too easy)—the most logical answer was to make it a bit more difficult to read someone. Which is where the empathy came in. If that makes any sense? I also left out words like 'telepathy', 'empath', 'powers', etc. because I imagine that those things weren't know back then. 
> 
> That migraine I described? Yeah, that's from experience. Sorry if I gave anyone second-hand pain from that. The panic attack, too. Sorry!
> 
> The gas attack scene was taken from a first-hand account of an American soldier named Stull Holt who got hit in the head with a stray gas shell and his mask fell off. He was treated for gas inhalation and a concussion and was pretty blasé about the whole thing. Dude was badass.
> 
> Also, sorry for no actual Blakefield in this one. I'm laying the groundwork, and I had to pave it with Tom's incessant pining and Will's stunted emotional complex. These boys are ridiculous.
> 
> I can't wait to write more of this!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Please leave a like or comment!


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